


Bone Splintered

by paxlux



Series: wishbone [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-16
Updated: 2011-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxlux/pseuds/paxlux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean puts a palm on a sigil and the juke whistles, It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bone Splintered

**Author's Note:**

> Timestamp-sequel.

It’s after midnight one night, Dean’s eating peanuts and Sam’s talking to one of the local girls about Quentin Tarantino and the juke says, I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways.

Dean puts a palm on a sigil and the juke whistles, It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

-

Pyotr steps inside, rubbing his hands together, and Dean sees him first, grabbing the bottle of cognac.

For the first few weeks after he met them, the barber would bring his bottle and snifter and sit at the bar, sipping his cognac, swirling it, talking about the weather, and hunting, and where his grandsons were. Dean would try to get him to cut Sam’s hair and Pyotr would laugh.

But one night, he left the bottle and snifter behind, so they take care of them, and when he comes in, they take care of Pyotr.

The seventy-three-year-old smiles almost as big as Sam with a reckless glint in his eye like Dean and he leans over the bar some nights to conspiratorially tell them he likes what they’ve done with the place, the last owner, bah, I spit on his grave, he was a terrible man, a terrible man, he would close at eleven and no one could have any fun and he smiled too much at the pretty ladies, even the young ones.

Tonight he comes in and Dean’s got the snifter ready, Sam pushes it across, but Pyotr doesn’t pick up the glass, cradling it, and smell his cognac, and take his first sip with his eyes closed.

Tonight he comes in and stares at the liquid trapped in the thin glass and Sam says, ‘Pyotr, man, hey, what’s wrong.’

‘There is a storm coming,’ Pyotr says, his accent hard on the word _storm_. ‘It’s brewing. Over there.’ He makes a vague gesture, arm pointing towards the pool tables and the jukebox spins up slow, there’s a feeling I get when I look to the west.

They exchange looks, Dean’s eyes going angry and Sam looks determined, but they don’t know if they’re going to have to fight or what, so after a minute, Dean says, ‘Must be why it’s been so damn humid lately. Gotta burn off the heat.’

And Pyotr drinks his cognac in fast sips, hand shaking.

‘No, no, I heard the thunder last night,’ he says, ‘when I was trying to sleep. No.’

There wasn’t any thunder last night. Dean was up until almost sunrise attempting to fix the TV and Sam sat with him, building a better stand for it; one of the legs broke during a sparring match and the TV crashed over backwards in the middle of an A-Team rerun. ‘I pity the fool who breaks my television set,’ Dean said, and Sam cut him off, ‘Shut the fuck up, Dean,’ and kissed him because the sparring match was effectively over and they’d have to take their fights outside in the woods at the edge of town, in the stand of bullet-ridden trees.

They didn’t hear any thunder even when Dean couldn’t stop talking as he fucked Sam and their bed creaked and the TV spluttered Magnum P.I. to the ceiling.

They’ve wondered about Pyotr in the past; he talks of dark shadows in the woods of his childhood, seeing yellow eyes in the night that followed him as he hunted, and once he shot a bear that wasn’t a bear and it wasn’t a human, but he understood he had killed the bear (that wasn’t a bear or a human) that had been terrorizing his village, snatching mothers out of their kitchens. He kept a claw from it, after he chopped its paws off, and he kept a tooth, after he chopped its head off, and then he burned the whole carcass. Every day, he puts the tooth and the claw in his pocket with his change.

‘I will give them to you,’ he said when Dean stopped in for a trim. ‘They might not help me anymore, but you.’ His scissors paused. ‘You will need them.’

So they listen to Pyotr when he talks about unusual weather; they listen when he puts money in the juke and he whispers to it and the juke listens to him, plays him whatever he asks for, even if all he says is, Give me some blues, musical box.

Tonight though he sips his cognac, hand shaking, and hangs his head. ‘Strong winds.’ And unlike any other night, Dean pours more into the glass and he smiles.

‘My grandson is coming to visit.’

He talks about his youngest grandchild, the one with the blue eyes, and Dean has to break up a fight before any pool cues or heads get busted and Sam walks Pyotr back to the barbershop where the pictures of his wife are waiting. Smiling, he pats Sam on the arm and says, ‘I will send Simeon to you. He has questions.’

As Sam’s headed across the street to the bar, he hears a low shuddering rumble in the distance. But he can still see the stars.

-

The next night, Pyotr wanders over to the jukebox and puts in a handful of quarters and whispers, ‘Play me something, musical box, whatever you like.’

The juke whirs, looking for a song and thunder breaks overhead.

**Author's Note:**

> Led Zeppelin and Bob Dylan. Another fragment, thus the title.


End file.
